Pity To Them Who Know Petty

I wrote this poem when I had a row with someone I'm not very acquainted with. She just started talking nonsense, and when she saw I didn't get any of what she said, she said I knew less than she did.

As xyloid gray matters proliferate,

Vicissitudes of vagabonds perpetuate.

Roots could never be unearthed to the edge,

Even by verve wits vivifying knowledge.

 

Yonder is an evil root of a wicked tree,

Viz the Yoke of Ignorance �" in jubilee �"

Conceived from a zarebu �" of what? �"

Of a wad of nonsense; think of that!

 

Virtuosos, under the umbra, are held captive

By swarming unscrupulous, haughty idiots; nonetheless, active.

Vexation, then, is what they deserve;

They, who vituperate through virulent vitriol with no reserve.

 

Your endearments enshrined my heart,

But confined was the word; liar! Thou art.

Your words, the soothsayer states

Are all but sophisms that you dictate.

 

Woe to them who knew not �" oh, what? �"

What a vademecum is, and not just that;

Add to it a wisp of worthlessness �" to yearn �"

Worsened by a core of unwillingness �" to learn.